and every breath she drew from you was a hallelujah
by BumbleMumbbleJimJams
Summary: An angel, a demon, a storm, and wrist restraints.


It was decided during short conversations. Ones where there was more left unsaid, than said. With lingering looks, and quick glances away. Soft touches that just barely qualified to be called so. The air clear with intent. She watched him carefully, made jokes, invaded space, and he only blinked. Days of playing delicate games, and silent conversations. His actions spoke louder than his words. His words when he slept, spoke louder than they ever did awake. Prayers. Praying to God to relinquish him. To show a sign. To show an existence. Mumbling out in different languages, different pleas. She didn't think that he even knew he was doing it. He teetered on the fine edge of his perceived self, and leaned on her existence in the room. He'd look up at her during board games to talk about some mindless drabble. The more he talked the more focused it became. Bible stories. Things with a meaning behind them. Stories of rejection. Stories of want. Stories of looking to God for the answers, but he didn't finish the last ones. He never got his answers.  
She'd tell her own stories. Her own a little more brash, said with big smiles, and lingering eyes. Talk about things to rile him up, but he never did. Mentioned her past briefly, told him about all the naughty things she's done in her existence. He lacked a noticeable judgment, but she watched him closely. Sees how when she slows her stories down, gets into the luxuries of pleasure, his breath hitches.  
She'd do it. She would do it in this body's heartbeat, but she wants to make him ask for it. In reality it's a short, tense, and fill in the blank conversation in a hallway with people shuffling in and out. He stays on his angelic side respectively during their talk. He almost looks tired, a little desperate. No, not desperate. She's not sure if his want out weighs his need. Because he wants it, every part of him is screaming out that he wants this, but he needs it too. He wants what he needs, and she smiles at him.  
There's a storm raging outside, and they're both in his room. He won't look at her, no matter how much she talks to him. He keeps staring out at the rain. He'd told her a story earlier in the day about rain. It was some parable that ultimately led to God being the one true answer, and to never abandon your faith in him. She stops talking, and takes the hospital's wrist restraints out of the drawer.  
It's a little ironic, an angel and a demon in a storm. His civil war destroying his world. Her long held loyalties being shattered.  
She needs to shed the skin of everything she's built for herself in the past. Rebuild herself into a new warrior for a new war. One with angels, demons, and hunters all on the same side. She wants to laugh, but she sighs as she works her hips. This is a war she wants to fight, whether she wants to admit it or not.  
The clean feeling he gives off becomes addictive, she wants to feel it running over her. Waves dragging her down into an unknown, and he's more than happy to indulge her interests, as she as to indulge his. She's defiling an angel's body, and this clean feeling is the dirtiest thing that she has ever felt. It burns her skin, like it's trying to absolve her sins, scrub her clean and raw.  
He's pushing himself to remain unbroken for as long as he can, but all he wants to do is break. He keeps opening and closing his eyes, but never fully, like he's not sure how to handle it best. His body against the bed as she ravages him. Keeping a calm breath as everything else goes hectic. The way she moves her hips, the visual of her on top of him, the storm raging on outside merciless on whatever it encounters. She moves slowly and luxurious for him, exaggerating every movement, making him draw out his breath. His eyes go wide, and head tilted back, hips slowly picking up the rhythm, fighting against the urge to move with her. She sees how his fists clench against his restraints. His breath is getting deep, each intake of air meaning something. She can hear a muttering under his breath and it sounds like a prayer, she can feel the rhythm of his words, pick up on the way it stings her, makes her eyes flicker black. She whispers shambles of words with him. It's a language she barely knows, but each sound rings in her, vibrating through her body. For a couple moments it almost feels like she doesn't have one, like she's been set free into her true form. Her pace changes to staccato as she tries to keep her bounds on her body.  
She wants to worship his body with hers, break the last and most satisfying straw. He fulfills her dirty fantasy to feel cleansed, and in return she rips into him, nails clawing at his grace, and he pushes into her further. It's a big ol' fuck you to God for not paying proper attention to him like he should have. A dutiful angel looking for his father, and here he is, tied up under a demon, loving every second of it. He's got a lot of daddy issues, and she's willing to service them. She's trying to cleanse him of all the things that he regrets, strip him down to as primal, and as wanting as he can possibly get. She wants to see how fearsome angels can get without any abandon. No god, no faith, only wanting. He's crossing all the lines from what he's been trained.  
She pulls him closer. Her body laying down against his, faces close, lips barely touching, breath lining up. His eyes staring right into her, as she sets the movement of her hips. She knows how he sees her. The true demon behind the beautiful face, and he doesn't wince. Her soul crafted into a creature for sinning, harmonizing with one made for god. Each breathe drawing him in closer to her. His lips meet with hers with a ferocity that quickly settles, as open breathed kisses become intimate.  
The bed groans as he rips his left his hand free and wraps it around her body. He's still trying to keep the rest of him constrained, other hand pressing against the bed frame. Angelic fingers burning a little on direct contact, still not entirely in control of his powers, his intent loosening his control even more. She can feel his grace humming in her mouth. The light in the room flickers for a moment, before it goes out completely.  
Her hand reaches up, and yanks on his left wrist restraint. Now. The bed lets out another groan as he rips his hand free. He pushes himself up to sitting right away, pulling her legs so they're wrapped around him. He stares at her for a second before he starts to move his hips. A demon having the creation of god and his power face, to face with her, and she pulls towards it. The world tilts, and her back hits the bed, hard. The pushed remains of an angel above her. Tested faith and frustration. Her hands are being held down by his. Face hovering above hers. He makes his moves count. One. She lets out a sound, and he waits. Two. She's expecting it this time, but he delights in seeing the pleasure in her face. Three. He's biting at her collarbone. Four, and he's not making pauses anymore.  
She's got her legs wrapped around him and he's going at it like he's the one trying to debauch her. There's a little spark with each movement, his grace acting up, being trained to settle by his own desire. By the time he abandons her hands for her legs and thighs, grabbing at them, pulling her left leg forward, it has stopped. She was going to tell him yes, right there, but his mouth is on her's before she has a chance to speak. His kisses burn. There's a lust and power and a rebellion from his true form behind them. She presses her mouth further into him.  
His hips become erratic, forceful, her fingernails digging into his ass. Blue eyes almost look a shade of gold as he comes. It's followed by a sigh that makes it sound like he was holding his breath this whole time, and languish hips. His faces falls to her neck and he breathes there for a couple seconds. She feels his warm breath going down between her breasts, over her stomach, and between her thighs.  
He's slow and soft with his mouth. She can see his eyes staring up at her, so she keeps her's open. Watching as he works his tongue in her, lips tugging at her clit, then mouth over it. He keeps going at her teasingly, applying firm pressure, but only for seconds. Her back arching against the bed, and lightening striking outside. The room illuminates and she can see all of his naked form with his face between her thighs, and his hands wrapped around them. Her own clutching at the bed frame and the sheets. She won't touch him, not now. He's playing with her, she can tell by the way that he looks at her, like he's daring her, just daring her to make a move. She stays silent, body restraining against the force of trying to push up to his face, and his mouth rewards her.  
The silence is deafening as she comes down from her orgasm. No more rain. He almost looks somber. She pulls him up by his hair and kisses him. Her kiss is hard and he meets it with raw power.  
She wakes up with his hand wrapped in her hair, and her naked body pressed against the front of his. The morning, like the night is cold. Her thighs are sore, her wrists are bruised, and her lips ache. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again it's daylight, bright and shining in. Castiel is trying to take his hand out of her hair as gently as possible. She looks up at him, and his mouth falls open. He looks more awake than he's looked since he's been here. He closes it, and then begins, for once, not to tell her of psalms or parables. His voice is as clear as the day as he speaks about himself. He speaks of belief and of doubt, of fear, of failure, of loss. His face looks serious as if each of his words has been carefully thought out, but they fall from his mouth at a steady pace. For all he bared last night, this exposes more. He continues talking as her feet pat across the floor, and she takes her folded clothes off the chair and puts them on. He's leaning against the bent bed frame naked. All the sheets rumpled on the floor from last night. She stays there listening to him for as long as she can afford it. Orderlies passing by the doors. None of them seem to notice he's naked, or how slept in she looks.  
She tells him to get dressed, and that she'll see him at lunch, then leaves. They're not allowed to take showers here, but she does. Scrubbing off the smell of him with hypoallergenic soap. She comes out smelling like herself again.  
She watches him throughout the day. He's different. His walk is stronger, his face looks more godly, but not that of his father's. At lunch she sits down across from him, he's got a game of chess set out. He speaks of bible versus this time, his voice is slow, languid, rough. He's placing his chess pieces across the board, but it doesn't look like he's paying attention. She grabs a pond, then a rook, and he nabs her queen. It's a simple conversation in text, but the way he says everything makes it completely different. It's dirty. In the end he loses this game, but as he resets the pieces to their places, he begins to recite specific pieces of the song of songs to her. He wins that game.


End file.
